


Deductive Turns of a Screwdriver

by Enterthetadpole



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Crossover, Dr Who is still a TV show, Established Relationship, Explosions may happen, Geeky Mycroft, M/M, Mystery, Or maybe it's not, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sonic Screwdriver
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2020-11-27 19:51:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20953991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enterthetadpole/pseuds/Enterthetadpole
Summary: Sherlock is always one to never turn away from a fascinating discovery, but when he comes across a very interesting item after a case, he needs to investigate even further. Too bad that the item in question belongs to a very special Doctor.And no, that Doctor isn't John...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Oh boy...
> 
> What in the world have I gotten myself into? Let's hope that my first venture into Wholock is something that will be enjoyed by all!.Comments and kudos are always welcomed here!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Newly edited!

If it hadn't been so exceptionally warm the previous night, John wouldn't have seen it. He never made a particular habit of striding into the kitchen on Monday mornings of 221B before heading to work. The propensity of the clinic needing all hands on deck at the start of the workweek prevented that, the need of their little slice of the London masses to get patched up from their ill-advised weekend. Nothing too outrageous met the staff. More often than not it was only John’s stitching skills that would get most of the workout, browline muscles a close second. He knitted them in mild concern as he witnessed the aftermath of alcohol-fueled misunderstandings and unusual spills from playground swings. 

Still, the gentle breeze coming from the vent in the kitchen started a chain reaction that could not be ignored. The bottom half of a tiny note fluttered as it clung to the surface of the refrigerator. Almost like a sign of surrender. 

John was used to Sherlock leaving notes around the flat. Mostly about John needing to do or not do something that was of the utmost importance. Always sticky notes. Always in a crisp yellow to maximize visibility. The script narrowed at the sides and rounded in loops near the top. So much like the sharp cheekbones and curly locks of their author that it made John think of the other man's face in constant profile. 

_ Eyeballs in crisper. Removal is highly inadvisable. _

_ -SH _

Seven words in any succession should not cause an otherwise perfectly rational man to want to punch a hole in a perfectly innocent wall. Especially when that man  _ needed _ his hands in his role as a doctor. So instead, the balled up left fist opened enough to grasp at his mobile phone in his back left pocket, and began a chase of trying to understand. Four text messages sent and answered. Each question returned with a response coated in the unmistakable air of someone who found the intrusions  _ dull _ and  _ unnecessary  _ in that low and familiar rumbling cadence that did things to John Hamish Watson that could  _ not _ be spoken aloud. 

So now, over a week later, John still played the whole situation in a constant loop in his mind. As if  _ any _ repetition would hold some sort of epiphany of the insanity of his flatmate. There was no reasonable pathway of comprehension as to what Sherlock Holmes had  _ actually _ wanted with three sets of eyeballs. Even with a golden ticket or silver key to that bloody mind palace, the consulting detective locked himself into.

Then again, maybe it was John’s flurry of reactions that was the true experiment. To document what continued exposure to ridiculous gore next to Chinese take away could do to an ex-army doctor in the span of seven days. And all under the scrutinized gaze of a madman. 

Still, John forged forward, eyeballs be damned because that’s what proper soldiers do. They march onward, laser-focused and ready to take down the enemy at a moment’s notice. The battleground nowadays still needed just as much nuance and patience as anything that he had dealt with in Afghanistan, though the food at Speedy’s was much better on a rush to the next case. 

Today’s case was an odd bit of business with a widow who had gone missing from her quaint home at the edge of the neighboring city. No foul play could be determined. No money was stolen or jewelry ransacked. It was just as if the elderly woman had simply vanished from her squishy armchair in front of the telly one mild evening. Her fluffy pink house shoes still waiting for their owner to slide into them. 

John had done what he’d always done when leaning against the sidelines of fast-moving brilliance. Sherlock's sweeping coat and down-turned expression as he paced around the tiny living room to catch what others had missed. The long fingers coming within an inch of touching ancient doilies and knick-knacks on freshly-dusted tables. The slightly-narrowed aquamarine gaze at the hushed conversation between Greg Lestrade and Phillip Anderson while he prowled around, much like a grumpy cat who was purposely being ignored by its idiot owners.

“How long since her neighbor's been over?” Sherlock asked, his tone edged with impatience.

Lestrade tilted his head at the question as if doing so would help him to understand it better. Anderson huffed, which of course didn’t help. 

“Spoke to Ms. Killsby about an hour ago,” Lestrade said smoothly. “Said that she hadn’t seen Ms. Haversham for close to three days, which was unusual. They used to have tea every day. At first, she thought that she’d gone to visit her cousin in London, but then - “

Sherlock waved an impatient hand in the DI’s face, dismissing the information. Anderson gave a scowl.

“It’s clear that the neighbor,” Sherlock began, with his back turned to both of the detectives, “Who has an unfortunate name, considering the circumstances, is the killer of the elderly victim in this case.”

John swallowed back a laugh at the cartoonish way that both Lestrade and Anderson dropped their jaws. Then watched as both of the other men’s eyes swept the room as if there would be some sort of large electric sign that would illuminate this obvious fact that the sweet little old lady they had both drank tea with only an hour before was indeed a cold-blooded murderer. Sgt. Sally Donovan’s shrill voice cut through the air and helped throw everyone back into the present.

“You gonna explain that bit of nonsense for the rest of us, Freak.”

Apparently Donovan decided that 11:23 am was the best time to land an insult. The name-calling as commonplace as her ringlets of curls and side glances to Anderson. Sherlock turned his back to her and spoke directly to Lestrade. 

"It's obvious," Sherlock said, ignoring the snort of disbelief from Sally. "Ms. Killsby murdered her neighbor because of her cat."

Sherlock paused to ensure that the room stayed silent before he continued his deduction. He then pointed to a large painting on the living room wall. The subjects were three purebred Persian cats. Two with soft snowy white and the third, clearly younger with dazzling green eyes and brilliant red fur.

"Ms. Haversham had that commissioned for an incredibly healthy sum," Sherlock continued. "The cupboards are full of high-end cat food and treats, while her own meals are meager. It's clear that she absolutely adored her felines."

Lestrade's mouth was in such a firm line that John was concerned for his dental work. The desire to ask Sherlock what in the world a missing old lady's doting on her cats had anything to do with the case at hand.

"Yet if you notice,” Sherlock continued, “All of the cats are gone. We have been here for over an hour and yet not one cat has appeared."

Sally snorted again, but this time Sherlock chose to round towards her. Only John knew Sherlock well enough to connect the venom of cutting words just below the surface. More likely a jab of Donovan being on the outs with Anderson again. "So you want us to arrest an old lady because of a few shy cats?"

"Fearful cats don't sit in one spot for multiple hours to be painted," Sherlock hissed back. "If you proceed to her neighbor’s flat you will find documents of where she has hidden the cats. The red one is the kitten of the other two and carries a rare genetic trait that causes its vibrant scarlet color that is worth a fortune when bred. Ms. Killsby befriended the victim to gain her trust and then murdered the woman, had the body disposed of, and took the cats. She also made some small adjustments to the flat to make it look like it had been lived in after the fact. Now, if you'll excuse me, John and I have better things to do. This case was barely a two."

DI Lestrade waved at Sally as she opened her mouth again.

"It's better than anything we've come up with," Lestrade sighed. "And the neighbor  _ did _ seem a little off regarding some follow up questions. It's worth checking out."

Sherlock gave an impressive sniff as he headed towards the front door. John cleared his throat as he followed, and within a few moments, the confused faces of all of the officers were gone. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!
> 
> Sorry about the long delay. Health problems and holidays have really gotten me all out of sorts, but I'm back with a new chapter. Hope that you enjoys, and as always comments and kudos are the breath of life!

Before John Watson had met Sherlock Holmes of 221B Baker Street, he had never considered taxi rides to be something more than transport. The same word that the man currently texting next to him would describe his own body, and therefore would ignore trivial issues like three steady meals a day. Yet now the inside of London cabs functioned both a mobile office as well as makeshift therapy bubbles to complain about rubbish cases and stupidity of the majority of the police force. 

“It frankly shocking that Anderson can even walk without slamming into a wall with how blind he is to the obvious,” Sherlock muttered. The grey-blue eyes illuminated by the light of the phone screen as his thumbs became a blur as he continued to text. “And Donovan…”

Sherlock sniffed in the way that John knew meant that even taking the time to properly insult Sally was way beyond any necessary energy. This was the natural order of things. Sherlock crouched over in the imitation of a well-dressed gargoyle, face set in a scowl that John only saw when Mycroft entered and then quickly exited any of their conversations.

"Trouble?" John asked

"Angelo," Sherlock answered, still glaring at his phone screen as it had personally offended him. "Completely forgot to order the correct wine for the evening. As if going with a Cabernet Franc would do for a proper one year anniversary."

John stilled for just enough time for the silvery eyes to shift up to meet his gobsmacked expression. It wasn't as if Sherlock had ever been good about announcing dinner plans to John. Just as it wasn’t a habit to clue John in on to where they were heading off to during any particular day associated with _ The Work _. When one lived with Sherlock Holmes, it was best to take each day as its own separate set of circumstances. Like a mini adventure wrapped up in half-drunk cups of tea and barely dodged bullet rounds.

This wasn’t necessarily the normal way for two men reaching forty to carve out a now one year romantic relationship, but John always knew that _ normality _ was what had him rotting away in a bedsit after returning to what other people called _ home _. That was utter nonsense, of course. Home was deep baritone mutters in the crook of his neck when they shared the warmth of salty skin in each others beds. Home was wild curls of dark hair that rippled in wind that materialized out of nowhere. Home was even eyeballs in refrigerators, and secretly finding it incredibly funny. 

Home was also what sat across from him in the taxi, staring at him at the moment with a _ very _ annoyed expression indeed. 

“What?” 

“You were smiling in _ that _ way. Explain.”

John raised his eyebrows in complete and utter confusion. Sherlock huffed at the reaction.

“What in the _ world _ are you on about?”

Sherlock sighed and slid his mobile into an inner pocket, then leaned over to look at John even more closely than usual. It was like being x-rayed by a very posh robot. “You smile like that when you’re trying to hold in further amusement. Probably about the wine choice. As if I should be held responsible for the incompetence of Angelo's - "

John actually did laugh at that, not helping the scowl on Sherlock’s face at all. 

“No,” John giggled, “I'm smiling at _you_, you ridiculous man. And to answer your next impending question, about many things. Including that you actually remembered our anniversary.”

Sherlock leaned back in his seat with the mild air of being affronted. John giggled again.

“John, my mind palace has millions of pieces of expertly stored information in a series of highly complex - ”

“You deleted the _ solar system _, Sherlock. Why the hell would I assume that you'd remember our anniversary?”

Sherlock blinked, clearly at a loss for words. John chuckled again at how lovely Sherlock’s lips looked when he pouted. 

“Our official time together as a couple,” Sherlock replied finally, “is _ infinitely _more important. Besides, the universe was only recalled back because you exist within its boundaries."

A sudden jolt of affection channeled through John like a bolt of lightning, and the _ barely contained smile _ grew even more. Sherlock shot him a look as if he was worried about his sanity. 

“You don't even realize that you just confessed that I'm more important to you than the galaxy?” John sighed, and Sherlock's cheeks went a muted pink. “Christ's sake, so many high-level platitudes and logic in that genius brain, yet completely clueless about how fucking romantic you can be."

Then it became morally necessary for Sherlock to recheck his emails, and John returned chuckling to the window to watch the city of London pass them by.


End file.
